


there's a place for us

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, it's fluff but it's not actual fluff idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where he finds himself most nights—at the bottom of a glass of vodka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's a place for us

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. I had Jane/Michael (Villadero? Cordueva?) feelings after 1x10, so I wrote this instead of studying for midterms. Timeline wise, it takes place a good while after the last episode. This is my first fic in the JTV fandom, so I'm still working on their voices. Sorry if I did it wrong. (Also, sidenote: I think Rafael is great. I'm just trying to show Michael's biased [and drunk] opinion of him.)
> 
> Title from the song "Somewhere" from West Side Story.

“I’m not giving up, Jane,” he says, the words blurring together a bit. “I’m not giving up on _you_ , I’m not giving up on _us_ , I’m not giving up.”

He stares at the half-empty bottle—the tenth in a week. This is where he finds himself most nights—at the bottom of a glass of vodka. Everything is warmer when there’s alcohol running through his veins; everything is brighter and softer and happier. With a drink in his hand, he can pretend everything is as it should be. No, he can _believe_ , and he _does_ believe.

He believes in a woman named Jane, believes in her love for him. He believes that that piece of shit Rafael is where he belongs—behind bars and far away from Jane. He believes everyone is where they belong. He and Jane and Rafael and Xo and Alba. Everyone has a place, has a home. And his? His place is by Jane’s side, as it should be. His place is coming back from work to their little one-story house and finding her, laptop sitting on the desk, her eyebrows scrunched together and her fingers flying across the keyboard. _Click click_. _Click click click_. The sounds of the keys bouncing back from her gentle touch is all he needs to hear.

His place is giving her a kiss from behind and watching her whirl around in surprise, yelling and swatting him away from the computer. “ _Michael_ , it’s not _done_ yet, you’ve gotta wait!”

“Janie,” he should be whining, trying to peek around her hands for a glimpse at her laptop screen, “I want to _read_ it.”

His place is watching her pout in secret satisfaction, warding him off with vehement protests and restricting hands. She finally shuts the lid of her laptop, and he’s still trying to dodge around her body to read the forbidden words. 

“Aw, Jane, c’mon. Please. Just a few lines. I want to see what you’ve been doing—c’mon, _please_.” His place is giving her the puppy eyes he knows she can’t resist.

But she’s a lot stronger than she looks, and his place is knowing (and admiring) that. “ _No_ , Michael, stop, you can’t read it until it’s finished.”

“ _Jaaaane_.”

His place is delighting in her stubbornness (and cursing it) as she turns from him with a tiny, pleased grin tugging at her cheeks.“You have to wait.”

“If I make grilled cheese sandwiches, can I read it?” he should be asking, not above bribery.

She laughs, and his place is delighting in the breathiness of it, in the flash of her teeth and the crinkle of her smile lines. “No. But you can still make those sandwiches.”

His place is trudging into the kitchen and pulling out the pans, pulling out the block of cheddar cheese (no Kraft singles; she hates the taste) for her and the colby jack for himself. His place is turning the oven flame on and feeling its warmth sink into his bones, only to be added to by her ever-present arm on his shoulder. She’ll be standing on her tiptoes, watching as he spreads butter on the slices of bread, stealing the knife from him when he’s done so he won’t lick the excess fat off it. (“It’s _good_!” he’ll protest. And then her fond, eye roll of a response, “It’s bad for you, Michael!”)

His place is standing by her as they eat their sandwiches over the kitchen sink, too lazy to get out actual plates, too hungry for any sort of manners. His place is exchanging strained grins with her around mouths filled with bread and cheese.

“You’ve made better,” she should be saying.

His place is pretending to be offended, putting down his sandwich in mock horror. “You know, I work so hard to make you happy, and this is what I get in return…”

She’ll laugh and hit his shoulder with a crumb-dusted hand and duck her head as she brings it to her sandwich. And when she’s finished hers, she’ll try to steal his. And then his place will be guarding his sandwich from her, she who is always hungry for more grilled cheese.

“But you eat it so _slow_ ,” she should be saying, grabbing after the bread.

His place is raising his eyebrows and running away in defense of his meal. “That’s because I am _enjoying_ it, _Jane_ , you’re the one who just shoves it down your throat.”

“Just a little piece?”

His place is scoffing and saying, “I’m never giving it to you.”

But his place is always relenting and giving her what she wants (in this case, the rest of his sandwich), which she’ll take one bite of, wrinkle her nose, say, “I don’t like your cheese,” and hand it back to him.

His place is taking it back and eating it victoriously in front of her, with her making faces at him as he enjoys his sandwich loudly. “Best. Sandwich. Ever,” he’ll declare, and she’ll shake her head at him and smile and say, “I’ve got to finish writing.”

And he’ll follow her back into the living room, sit on the couch as she takes her place in front of her trusty laptop. He’ll pretend to be reading a book or watching TV, but he’ll sneak looks at her from the corner of his eye, loving the way her spine curves as she hunches over the keyboard, her beautiful eyes fixed and steady on the screen, her mouth half-open as she becomes enraptured in her writing.

His place is forgetting he’s supposed to be keeping his glances short and clandestine and getting caught analyzing her. His place is trying to change his face from one of awe to one of innocence.

“You were watching me,” she should be saying, resting an elbow on the desk and her head on her elbow.

“What? No. What? I wasn’t.”

“You were,” she says, resolutely turning back to her computer.

“What? No.” 

They’ll leave it at that until she catches him again, studying the graceful length of her nose and marveling at it.

“You’re doing it again.”

His place is snapping his eyes up to the ceiling. “No, I wasn’t doing anything. I was—”

“You can’t lie to me, Michael.” She’ll try to sound serious, but she’ll break her gruffness with a sunny grin and throw herself onto the couch, by his side. (But first she’ll close her laptop.)

His place is wrapping an arm around her and feeling the familiar warmth of her body as she presses into him, hand finding its way to his head and stretching her fingers through his hair. His place is staring at her and saying, knowing without a doubt that she’ll repeat his words, “I love you.”

And her grin should still be there, deepening into a fiercely happy thing. “I love you too, Michael, so much.”

He should be hugging her closer, and they should be sitting pressed into each other for several minutes, several beautiful, silent, still minutes, and then she’ll jump up, jolting him from an almost nap, look into his eyes, and say in a panicked voice, “ _Grey’s Anatomy_ is on, we’re missing it!” She’ll scrabble around for the remote, and he’ll flip over the couch cushions while she opens and closes drawers with a careless bang. “Hurry, Michael, we’re missing it!”

“I’m going, I’m going,” he should be saying, pretending not to care about not seeing the show. (He loves it.)

They’ll find the remote five minutes later, and, having missed the first ten minutes, will spend the next twenty looking up spoilers online. Ultimately, they’ll miss the whole episode because “we can’t just start watching now, Jane, we won’t know what’s happening!”

She’ll collapse into the sofa after he puts back the cushions, lay a hand on her head, and say, “We should really get a DVR.”

And his place is laughing a little breathlessly at their manic night and taking her hand in his as they calm their racing hearts on the couch. They’ll stay sprawled, arms and legs tangled, for a while. His breathing will be slowing and she’ll stop fidgeting.

“Bed?” he should be asking.

She’ll shrug. “Yeah.”

He’ll wrap his hand around hers and they’ll both lean on each other and struggle down the hall to their bedroom, bones heavy with sleep.

And his place is curling up beside her under the sheets, her body warm against his, watching her fall asleep in the dark, and wrapped safe in the knowledge that tomorrow he’ll have another beautiful day just like this one, and a beautiful woman to share it with.

These are Michael’s beliefs, and he’s so set in them, they become a sort of religion. As in any respectable religion there are commandments, and he is steadfast in following them. They are drinking at night and dreaming about Jane, eating a stale bagel in the morning and dreaming about Jane, going to work and dreaming about Jane, finding proof about Rafael and dreaming about Jane, talking to Nadine and dreaming about Jane, dreaming about Jane. Because, surely, if you dream, if you hope, if you wish and pray hard enough, you will be answered. Rewarded. You will find your place, your home, your heaven. And all will be as it should.

In this moment, his place is drowning himself in liquor. But outside of fleeting moments, of impermanent thoughts and actions, of flimsy words and fading snapshots of life, his place—his heaven—is with Jane, and hers with him.

And so Michael tips back the now empty bottle and leaves it there, the weight making his arm ache, waiting for the last drops to slide into his mouth.

He will find his place.


End file.
